


Date Nite

by dorbee, Monocerotis



Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: "First" Dates, Amnesiac!Ford, M/M, Slow Dancing, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29152734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monocerotis/pseuds/Monocerotis
Summary: After painstakingly editing Stanford's journals, Fiddleford surprises his partner with the revised volumes. A whirlwind of passion ensues, much to the chagrin of a certain former Muse.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096208
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Ignition

A little glue here, a little tape there—

_ FIDDLESTICKS, I NEVER THOUGHT I’D SAY THIS— _

_ I know your expectations for me are low at best. _

_ —BUT YOU’VE CREATED QUITE THE PAINSTAKINGLY ABRIDGED VERSION OF FORDSY’S JOURNALS! WITH YOUR LEVEL OF ATTENTION TO DETAIL, I FIGURED IT’D NEVER GET DONE. _

_ And yet here they sit, no thanks to you.  _ Tracing each cover with his finger, he rests his palm atop Journal 2, in the center of the arrangement.

_ IF YOU FEEL LIKE THANKING ME FOR SOMETHING, I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW HE’S IN PRIME POSITION TO RECEIVE YOUR GIFT. _ A clip of Ford batting a completed Cubic’s Cube between his hands commandeers his cortex.

_ I appreciate your intel, _ Fiddleford admits. He stacks the journals in order and balances the tower in his arms.  _ Be a dear an’ keep yourself outta my hair for the next hour or so, would ya? I’d like some privacy with our darlin’ Fordsy. _

_ FINE, BUT ONLY BECAUSE YOU CALLED HIM “OUR” FORDSY. _

Once Fiddleford senses Bill’s absence in the back of his skull, he marches downstairs with the tomes. “Stanford, I finally finished that project o’ mine!”

The Cubic’s Cube clatters to the ground as Ford halts in his rhythmic bouncing back and forth. All of Fiddleford’s projects are delightful, and this is sure to be no exception! “What did you finish?” he asks, approaching the heavy reading material. “Is it those? Are they for me? Or for us? Sorry, I get so flustered around these—” His hand brushes the cover of Journal 1, and his breath catches. “Newfangled objects.”

Fiddleford groans and sets the books on the coffee table. The work feels worthwhile when he sees Ford’s excitement, and he smiles. The relative lack of recognition leaves his smile bittersweet. “These are... they’re yours. Your records, I—”

_ DID SOME SPRING CLEANING? _

_ What part o’ “keep outta my hair” do you not understand? _

_ I WAS TRYING TO THROW YOU A BONE, YEESH! _

“—organized the volumes for ya.” Flicking the colored tabs that stick out from each book, his smile grows authentic. “I’m sorry I kept ‘em hidden so long, sweetheart. They’ll never part from you again.”

Ford’s hands follow Fiddleford’s, brushing the tabs and examining the works. The hushed respect in Fiddleford’s voice indicates they’re important. He flips through the second book, not lingering on any page long. The handwriting is familiar, but he’s certain it’s not his own—it’s much too legible. The same goes for the art. So, he assumes, “You did all this on your own?” He’s amazed. “Why, of course you’ve been so busy, hardly sleeping! All this in a matter of weeks? I’d think these took years!” He doesn’t notice Fiddleford’s minuscule grin has become a downright abominable grimace.

“I… I don’t think you understand what I mean by  _ your _ records.” Loosening his tie, he sidles closer to his partner. “These look like they took ages ‘cause they did. First one’s six years old, an’ it’s got your name on the cover.” Opening Journal 1, he points to Stanford’s signature and the inscription beneath it. “ _ Ad astra per aspera _ —the romantic in you must be bigger than I thought. You wrote that on every single one.”

That is his name, and though it’s unfamiliar, Ford feels a clicking sensation in the back of his mind. It’s a feeling he gets when one of those old memories reconnects. He runs his hand over the text and believes the book belongs to him—but some questions remain unanswered.

“Could you, uh, help me with the foreign tongue, Fiddleford?” He points to the closest thing he ever had to a catchphrase. He’s written it several times over, but now it’s unrecognizable.

Fiddleford’s hackles raise. “Oh no, I never mastered Latin like you—” he’s overthinking his current dilemma. Re-centering himself with a deep breath, he continues. “But I know these words like the back o’ my hand. Or the back o’ your hand, as it were. You hammered ‘em into my cranium.” Gesturing to each word in turn, he translates the epithet. “To, the stars, through, difficulties.” As if channeling something eldritch and indecipherable, he shivers. Hearing the words in English sends a similar chill up Ford’s spine.

“To the stars through difficulties,” Ford repeats several times over. He’s overcome with a feeling, a need, an urge—he lunges forward and pulls Fiddleford into a quick, but rough kiss. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much. It feels like I’m coming together again,” he whispers, hugging him with Journal 1 in his hands. He never wants to let go.

The brutish manner in which Ford delivers his affection rocks Fiddleford to his core. Starstruck and speechless, his knees knock together with youthful jitters. “F-F-Fordsy…”  _ Why do I sound more like my wife than myself? _ His heart is reinventing the definition of cardio. “I—y-you—that—since when did  _ you _ wanna do  _ that _ to me?”

The question confuses Ford and he lets out a stilted laugh. “As long as I’ve been in love with you?” He removes one hand from the journal to grab Fiddleford’s. “You did me a kindness, I wanted to return the favor through physical affection. I can’t offer you much else and it’s pleasing, yes?”

Fiddleford’s hangup does appear silly now, but he balks at Ford’s breezy disposition. “You have so much to offer me besides that, but…” He squeezes his boyfriend’s hand. “I have to say, I never expected you to be so… open with your affections?” His voice creaks like a rusty-hinged door.

When Ford understands what Fiddleford means, he’s more apologetic than romantic. “Oh, I see—am I being too forward? I’d hate to be too forward with you. I just…” his words trail off into excited mumbling, a wide grin on his face. He looks at Fiddleford as if he’s made a coherent point.

Shaking his head, Fiddleford’s fidgeting picks up pace. “No, no, that’s not it, I-I don’t mind, it’s…” tapering off in much the same way, he rests his head on Ford’s shoulder, overwhelmed. “You used to tell me  _ I _ was bein’ too forward.”

Ford’s confused. “I said that? I can’t imagine such a thought right now, given how desperate I am to hold you.” He grabs the back of Fiddleford’s head and massages his fingers into it, mussing up his hair in all the right ways.

“ _ Lord almighty, _ ” Fiddleford squeaks, commanding his legs to keep him upright. “Did I die in my sleep and end up in heaven, or did you get your hands on some corner store paperbacks while I wasn’t around? Either way, don’t ever stop.” Caressing Ford’s back with his free arm, the touch feels more intimate than it ever has before. “What other…  _ fantasies _ have you kept under your hat?”  _ What’ve you been too afraid to do? _

The question overwhelms Ford. He wants to do everything in the world to and with Fiddleford. He wants to fill in all the spaces missing in their life together. His first attempts at answering are nonsensical, but he gets it on the third go. “Dates. I can’t remember the last time I left this lot, let alone did anything considered ‘fun.’ I don’t know if I could take you out, but we could go out. Together. Do. Something.” His hands drop down to the journal, which he gives a firm squeeze.

The answer is more charming than Fiddleford expected. Dates! Honest to god, bonafide dates! So earnest and sincere, it wrecks him to see Ford torn up over it. “Not only will you kiss me like that, but you’ll also do it in public? You’re sure that won’t be too much for you?” With this development on the table, his voice drops to a sultry register. “I’d love for us to have some fun together.”

Ford wraps his arms around Fiddleford, holding him to his chest like a therapeutic weight. As he often does at times like this, he rocks. “I don’t know much about our surrounding area. I’ll trust your judgment on local tolerance of same-sex relationships. If it’s merely a matter of my comfort…” He thinks for a moment before shrugging and laughing like a schoolgirl. “I don’t care, Fiddleford!”

Fiddleford is glad to see a glimpse of Ford’s former prudence. It’s a greater gift to see Ford’s neuroses turn to a blissful disregard of outside opinions. “The people o’ this town got bigger fish to fry than you an’ I gettin’ together. Heck, they’ll be happy to see you showin’ your face for somethin’ other than a grocery run!” he chuckles, rocking alongside Ford with hardly a care in the world, if only for a moment. Glancing back down to the journals, an idea crosses his mind. “You could even memorize a passage or two from these in case someone asks you what we’ve been up to out here, yeah? Nothin’ much, you know these folks ain’t used to our highfalutin’ terminology anyhow.”

Ford nods, pulling Journal 1 out and taking a look inside. To his dismay, it’s a challenging read—the writing is dense, the terminology advanced. Has cursive always been so confusing? Not if he wrote so much in it. He grumbles, shoving the journal into Fiddleford’s arms and grabbing the next one. “I’ll tell them...” He scours the pages. “I’ll tell them I’m a... a visiting researcher... studying anomalous activity... in this town... because there’s... a lot of it, I don’t know!” He slams the second journal shut and doesn’t go to grab the third one. Instead, he sits with his head resting on his balled-up fist. It’s so much easier to live in the moment, not thinking about who he was or who he’s going to be. He’s not dissuaded from the idea of dating, but he resents the facts of integrating into normal town life. There’s a reason they haven’t left the cabin—life is easier here. Much safer.

Fiddleford sets the first journal down. “Oh, come now, darlin’…” He kneads both his thumbs into one of Ford’s hands. “What you said is a fine start. A great start, even. We can keep it vague if it’d be easier. Everyone’s awful smitten with you as a mysterious stranger anyway.” Ford is still despondent, so he brings out the big guns—a long, tender hug. “Hey, how about you let me handle all the talkin’? I’ll tell anyone who asks that you’ve had a long day. You can focus on enjoyin’ yourself.”

Ford’s relieved by the answer, but not pleased. “Thank you, Fiddleford,” he says, trying his best to ease into the hug. There are several long seconds of silence before he sighs and speaks again. “I only wish I could treat you like more of a gentleman. That you got to focus on enjoying yourself, not me.”

Fiddleford wants to crawl into Ford’s lap, but he knows Ford needs him more than he needs Ford, and stays put. It takes a lot of masking his despair to begin forming words. “Every second I get to spend with you is special enough, ain’t I told you that? I’m happy to get outta here for a little while, honest. It’ll do us both good.” Now it’s his turn to play with Ford’s hair, living up to his name as he fiddles with a few strands between his fingers. “I can be enough of a gentleman for both of us.”

Ford giggles and bats Fiddleford’s hands away from his hair—not hard enough to stop him, only as a gesture. He shows a genuine smile, no hedging, and clutches Fiddleford’s waist. “Well, you’re already such a gentleman every day, it must be second nature to you. I’ll get there with time.” As he circles his hand, he feels an odd spot in the fabric. He furrows his brow and manhandles Fiddleford to get a closer look: there’s a tear in his shirt. He blushes. “Speaking of being gentlemen, we may want to get some nicer clothes.”

The teasing, the tender stroking—getting shoved around like he weighs nothing? At least Ford gives him an excuse for why he’s so flushed. “That—that would be wise, I reckon.” Straightening his tie as he stands up, he smiles back at Stanford. “How about we head back to our rooms an’ get changed? Can you tell me the way back to yours?” It’s a failsafe they’ve developed to keep him from getting lost on even the shortest trips.

Ford grins. “How about I show you?” He grabs Fiddleford by his wrist and heads up the stairs, to the right, around the corner, and three doors down. He hesitates before opening the door (the only tell that he’s not 100% certain) but mutters a quiet “yes!” as he recognizes the familiar sheets and shelves. He takes a step in, releasing Fiddleford’s hand as he leans against the doorframe.

“And your room is—” he points right, but his brow furrows a moment later and he slowly turns his hand to the left... then down... then up... he laughs and shrugs. “Looks like I’m not making that boast today, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding it on your own.” He pauses a moment before dipping in for a quick peck on the cheek. He’s blushing when he pulls away. “I love you, F.”

For a few long moments, Fiddleford lingers in the doorway, rubbing his wrist where Ford held it seconds ago. “I love you too, Fordsy.” He yearns to return the kiss, but worries he’ll be unable to keep himself from planting his lips on Ford’s. He makes an about-face and powerwalks to his quarters. The door shuts behind him and he frees a breath he didn’t know he was holding, loosening his tie and casting it aside. It lands on his nightstand, and he pulls open his wardrobe doors with a barely-audible grunt. Greeted with his familiar, unassuming attire, his mind turns to static. When he’s about to attribute it to brain fog, the static grows louder. Much louder. Bill’s scream soon becomes audible.

_ AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHELLO FIDDLEFORD, I’VE NOTICED YOU’RE ABOUT TO PASS OUT! CAN WE TALK ABOUT THAT? CAN WE TALK ABOUT WHY THIS IS HAPPENING IN OUR SHARED LIVING SPACE? I KNOW YOU WANTED ME TO HEAD TO THE FRUIT CELLAR, BUT I WOULD’VE LOVED A KNOCK! A WARNING BEFORE YOU GET GOO-GOO-EYED AND MAKE ME THINK WE’RE HAVING A _

_ GODDAMN HEART ATTACK! _ Bill doesn’t manifest the mindscape—Fiddleford needs to change, after all. Bill knows the importance of a good outfit. But Bill’s image consumes his host’s thoughts: arms crossed, waiting for excuses.

“I don’t know what happened either!” Only when Fiddleford stamps the ground does he realize he’s speaking aloud to the voice in his head. Praying Ford doesn’t hear or elects to ignore it, he grabs his only good suit and tosses it onto the bed.  _ Listen, I’m no more pleased than you are about this, alright? It’s not my fault the man can’t gauge his strength! _ He groans inside and out: it  _ technically _ is his fault. He starts undressing.  _ Well, he’s the one who got all intimate to begin with. Wanna get my mind off it? Make me think o’ things that ain’t so appealin’…but don’t traumatize me any more than you already have. _

_ HM, ’THINGS THAT AIN’T SO APPEALIN’.’ KNOWING YOU, TRUTH SHOULD DO THE TRICK! I KNOW THIS IS FUN, PLAYING PRETEND WITH YOUR LOST LOVE, BUT WE KNOW IT’S NOT THE SAME. SINCE WHEN DID FORDSY KISS YOU OR ANYONE ELSE FIRST? THAT STUNT BACK IN HIS ROOM? _

He fills Fiddleford’s mind with an all-consuming stare, only his eye.

_ WOULD HE NOT BE AGHAST AT THESE ACTIONS IN HIS RIGHT MIND? _

Bill’s right—he’s rarely wrong—but what  _ is _ rare is Fiddleford’s reaction. Angry he may be, it’s not directed at himself.

_ So he would. We also know Stanford’s a confident feller, if not in matters o’ the heart, then in other spheres. _ He tugs on his shirt with a scowl.  _ That means his fear o’ lovin’ someone ain’t natural, it’s an outlier. Someone taught him that.  _ Pausing with his shirt half-buttoned, he narrows his eyes.  _ Someone taught me that once, too, y’know. Someone who sounded an awful lot like you. _

Bill’s staring eye glows red.  _ WHAT, ARE YOU GONNA ACCUSE ME OF BEING SOME KIND OF HOMOPHOBE? I’VE BEEN FUCKING—AND FUCKING WITH—HUMAN MEN FOR QUITE SOME TIME, I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW! _ The red calms once Bill pauses for a moment.  _ IT WAS A PART OF HIM YOU DIDN’T LIKE, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT WASN’T AN IMPORTANT PART OF HIM. IT’S BECOME CLEAR TO ME THAT YOU AREN’T INTERESTED IN PRESERVING WHAT WAS THE WAY I AM. YOU’RE MORE THAN HAPPY TO MOVE ON, LIVING A DOMESTIC LIFE WITH A RELATIVE STRANGER. NOT MUCH DIFFERENCE FROM BACK HOME. _ Bill does his best to look polite and non-threatening.  _ I’M IN NO POSITION TO STOP YOU, ONLY TO COMMENT. PLEASE, ENJOY YOURSELF! _

**_There’s more to lovin’ human men than simple pleasures o’ the flesh,_ ** Fiddleford mentally growls. He mulls over the hours he devotes to care for his partner.  _ What do you miss about who he used to be, Billy, hm? What would you have me preserve? _ He yanks on his pants.  _ The shame, the fear, the heart palpitations—did you like those? Were they fun to you?  _ Once he zips up, he stares at the jacket—the same one he wore the day he drove into town.  _ You said it yourself that things can’t go back to the way they were before. Can’t I enjoy what little I have left? _

Bill’s fists clench, red again rising in his eyes like mercury in a thermometer. What infuriates him so is that Fiddleford isn’t wrong. Bill’s second favorite thing about Ford was the dignity and respect he had for himself. His favorite thing was breaking it. Now it’s broken for good, and Bill admits, Ford seems happier. But who cares about that, Bill’s still mourning the loss of his favorite toy! He only speaks when he realizes he’s been glaring for too long.  _ DO WHATEVER YOU WANT WITH YOUR LIFE. I PREFER YOU ENJOY IT—YOU’RE SUCH A PAIN WHEN YOU’RE SUICIDAL! _ It’s a low blow, but he’s desperate.

In the distance, they hear doors slamming, a familiar voice repeating Fiddleford’s name. Ford’s looking for him.

_ THAT’S MY CUE, SUNSHINE. OFF TO THE CELLAR I GO! DO DAH DO… _ he hums along, the sound creeping down Fiddleford’s spine along with footsteps. Not a moment later, Fiddleford regains complete control of his thoughts. He picks up his jacket and hops to his feet, heading for the door. Bill’s petty jabs aren’t worth ruminating on.

“I’m right here, Stanford!” he calls, pulling the door open. Ford isn’t there, so he steps up and sticks his head through the doorway, peeking around the corner. “Stanf—” His pupils contract. “—Oh my word.”

Ford’s facing away from Fiddleford, and he turns on his heel, stumbling at the sound of his voice. Ford smiles when they meet eyes, despite his partner’s aghast expression. “Fiddleford! I found some wonderful attire in the back of my closet,” he says, draping the black suit over one arm and presenting it. “It doesn’t seem like anything I’d wear, but I could pull it off for you.”

Fiddleford McGucket would describe the scene before his eyes as a “worst-case-scenario.” First, Ford’s choice of suit. His father’s suit. A cold reminder of the expectation of heterosexual marriage. Fiddleford should’ve known this would happen, letting the amnesiac dress himself. The oversight bit him in the ass. That alone would be enough to give him a heart attack, but then there’s the second, more pressing problem:

Stanford Pines’ only attire is a pair of boxers. Mangled his brain may be, his body is as muscled and fit as the day he hit the floor. Groomed too—not a hair out of place from head to toe. Ford would never be so cavalier when caught in this state of undress. Now that time seems like it was forever ago.

“I—I d-do think you’d look rather fine in that, but it’s—” he takes a sharp breath in, petting one of his hands. “For  _ very _ special occasions. You m-might want to. Save that?”

Ford laughs off his lover’s nerves. “Fiddleford, this  _ is _ a very special occasion! I’ve never—well, I have no  _ clear memory _ of being in this kind of one-on-one interaction with another person! I’d like to look my best.” His eyes go all big and soft in a way they rarely have before. “It would be an honor to do it for you, in particular.” He shivers as the words leave his mouth. It’s particularly drafty in here today, isn’t it?

...

Oh... this is not his typical state of dress... in fact, this is an abnormal state of dress... he left his room unclothed. They’re men, and lovers dammit, so it’s not a big deal, but the gaffe still leaves him blushing. He pulls the suit to his chest.

Fiddleford tries to ease Ford’s embarrassment upon realizing he hadn’t meant to enter in the buff. “It’s alright, it’s alright, you—you jus’ got excited, I’m sure!” He pats Ford’s face and takes his hand. “Why don’t I help you change into this?” He pulls Stanford inside before he can respond. He doesn’t resist, nor does he mind when Fiddleford takes the suit. He removes the shirt with one hand and slings the rest over his shoulder. “Hold out your arms and I’ll slip it on.” He moves over to Ford’s side.

Ford lifts his arms and Fiddleford slips the shirt on like he said he would. It fits! A little loose, but evenly so, as if stretched out by his body. He wonders if he’s ever worn it before as he begins buttoning it up. His thoughts wander, and he finds the sides mismatched upon reaching the last button. “Oh, for the love of—” he tsks as he undoes the shirt, getting rougher with the garment in his frustration.

Ford’s brusqueness concerns Fiddleford—in the same breath, it’s more attractive than it has any right to be. It could be his imagination, dreaming about why else he might undress with such urgency— “Slow down.” He seizes Ford’s hands with his own before they tear off a hapless button. “How about I take care o’ that for you?” Wiggling his fingers as he releases Ford from his grasp, he quirks one side of his mouth up in a lopsided smile.

The feeling of Fiddleford’s hands on his lingers even once his partner pulls away. He clenches and unclenches his fists, in part to shake the feeling off, but also to savor it while it lasts. After a few seconds of this, he remembers to reply verbally. “Your help would be much appreciated, Fiddleford.” Ford’s lopsided smile matches his partner’s.

Fiddleford works his way up from the bottom, checking and rechecking himself. He pulls the fabric from Ford’s body, lest his fingertips brush against bare skin. Avoiding temptation is preferable to resisting it. He considers asking if Ford would keep the top buttons undone for a change, but decides against it. Grabbing Ford’s chin and tilting his head up gives him the extra room needed to fuss with the last buttonhole. “How’s that feeling, you comfortable?” he asks, fidgeting with the collar before pulling his hands to his chest.

Ford’s convinced Fiddleford is some kind of professional shirt-buttoner. He’s twice as fast as him! He’d be jealous if he wasn’t so enamored. He opens his mouth to answer Fiddleford’s question, but there’s only a confused vowel sound. He purses his lips and tugs at the pants of the suit.  _ We’ll be more comfortable with these on, _ he thinks as if Fiddleford can hear.

“Alright, alright, I hear ya.” That might not be literal, but Fiddleford got the message, and he pulls the trousers off his shoulder. “Step on in, then! I’ll pull ‘em up once you’re ready.”

Ford nods and does as he’s told, breathing a sigh of relief the moment his legs are no longer bare. With no nudity to distract him, he starts adjusting his clothes. Making sure the shirt’s tucked, waistband parallel, all that jazz. Once he’s comfortable, he smiles at Fiddleford. “Thank you for your help, I,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable with my... indisposed state. I was quite excited about the suit.” He looks at it and bounces. Okay, he’s  _ still _ quite excited about the suit. Fiddleford’s excited, too, though his leg is all that bounces.

“It was nothin’ I ain’t seen already, dear, don’t you worry.” Looking Ford up and down, he has to overpower the urge to lick his lips. “I can’t blame you for rushin’ out here, you look the spiffiest I’ve ever seen you and we’re not even done!” Allowing the suit jacket to slide off his shoulder and down his arm, he catches it in his hand. “Let’s finish up quick before our hearts beat outta our chests.”

Ford blushes and holds a hand to his cheek, looking away. “Oh, thank you,” he says, voice held back. Fiddleford has a way of dishing out compliments that sends Ford. Spiffy? No one’s ever called him spiffy! He turns his back to Fiddleford and raises his arms.

Like the shirt, Fiddleford glides the jacket on sleeve by sleeve, pulling at the lapels once he’s through. Instinctively, he buttons it up too. As he gives Ford another once-over, he ponders the missing tie. If it were loose, it would’ve fallen out or made itself visible at some point, but it remains absent. When he’s about to suggest that Ford could borrow one of his, he notices a slight bulge in the breast pocket. “Eureka!” Sticking his hand inside, he pulls out a carefully-folded mahogany tie. He presents his discovery to Stanford as if it’s a fine nugget of gold. “Smart thinkin’, squirrelin’ it away in there…” His crooked grin returns as he stretches it out. “May I?”

“Of course you may,” Ford says, bowing his head reverently, offering his neck to Fiddleford. Ford showing Fiddleford deference is thrilling—especially such an overt display like this.

“I-I promise I’ll tie it just right,” Fiddleford gulps, pulling the tie around Ford’s neck with steady fingers. Every other inch of Fiddleford trembles as he eyeballs the proper length for each end. His brow furrows as he folds with mechanical precision, lips pursing with concentration. Then, the moment of truth—he pulls the knot closed, pushing it up and pressing it into Ford’s neck. “Not too loose? Not too tight?”

Ford stands to his full height and reaches up to touch the knot. He doesn’t know how to judge the quality, but he doesn’t care. “It seems perfect,” Ford says with a sly smile, “but shouldn’t we check a mirror? To be sure, both of us?” He reaches out and takes Fiddleford’s hand, rubbing a circle into it with his thumb.

He almost refuses Stanford’s request, dreading how he’ll pale in comparison. All it takes to win him over is some hand-holding. “I’ll humor you.” Sauntering to the corner, he grabs a tall mirror on wheels, hidden behind the wardrobe. Tilting it with his free hand, he frames their bodies within the glass, then takes a step or two back to Ford’s side. He hears a shutter click in the back of his mind.

Fiddleford’s brown hues are plain next to Stanford’s ensemble, but they’re not too mismatched. Is it the hair? Only Fiddleford is graying prematurely. The glasses? That’s more likely—they’d be too blind to recognize their reflections without them. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” He slaps a hand to his mouth—that was a thought he meant to keep to himself. Ford reacts to the misspoken words with a smile.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this either! To think I’m this old and I’ve never taken someone out—I don’t know about your experience, but I’m excited! I’m thrilled, delighted, over the moon!” He takes a good look in the mirror—more at Fiddleford than himself. Ford looks like a little boy in his father’s clothing, but Fiddleford could pass for a Harvard man! He’ll have to write this down in his list of reasons why he’s head over heels. He wraps a hand around Fiddleford’s waist, running his fingers up his side and around his shoulder. There’s a pause before he rubs his nose into his neck, pecking smooches up it and ending with a long, deep kiss on the cheek. “I love you!” The words come out through a giggle, and like Fiddleford, he covers his mouth to quiet it, but he can’t stop. He wraps his other arm around Fiddleford, rocking and letting out more laughter. “I love you, I love you!”

Being rocked by Ford is more soothing to Fiddleford than any chair or cradle. He lets himself sink into the embrace as their bodies move back and forth. “I love you, too, sugar. You’re the light o’ my life.” Casting a sideways glance at the mirror, he stares up at Stanford’s face, beaming brighter than the sun. “We’re gonna have the most fantastic night, I can already tell.”

The road before them may be long, but at least there are many more nights like this ahead of them.


	2. Slow Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disco Night at Greasy's Diner is the perfect opportunity for the pair to stretch their legs. While their dishes are cooked to perfection, their emotions turn out tender and raw.

Fiddleford’s visited Greasy’s many times since his arrival in town, with and without Stanford. Tonight it’s as if Susan repainted the whole place purple. Of course, this is the result of several cheap lights strewn about the railcar, but it’s still jarring. As they sit down at an empty table, he asks, “It’s not too disconcertin’ for you in here, is it?” Ford hasn’t seemed bothered by the change in decor, but checking in feels wise.

For several seconds, Ford doesn’t respond. He’s too distracted by the beautiful lighting of their quaint surroundings. His gaze wanders back to Fiddleford, and he shakes his head with a smile. “It’s not disconcerting in the slightest. Everything—the drive here, the town, this diner—it’s all so familiar, it’s an absolute pleasure.” Ford adjusts his glasses as he realizes the lighting is not conducive to easy reading of the menu. He’s starting to get frustrated before he has an idea. “Do you know what I liked here?”

Easy questions like that are Fiddleford’s favorites, of the many that leave Ford’s mouth daily. “Of course!” Without even touching his menu, he starts rattling things off. “You get scrambled eggs with extra cheese and hash browns, but we ain’t havin’ breakfast tonight. You should order your other favorite—a full plate o’ fries an’ a large chocolate shake, to dip ‘em in!” When he realizes how long he’s been speaking, he blushes. “I may know you a bit too well.”

Ford chuckles. “That’s a good thing when I don’t know myself, Fiddleford.” Before he can ask what Fiddleford wants, a woman in a bell-bottomed catsuit approaches. Ford assumes she’s a waitress given the apron that accompanies her attire, and,

“I’m your waitress!” she states. “Now, are ya ready to—hold on a minute!” She lifts her eyelid (oh, she does have two eyes) to give them a better look and smiles. “It’s you silly mad scientists from the forest! Where’ve ya been? You two used to eat here so much I didn’t think you knew how to cook!” She laughs very hard at her own comment. Ford does not, rather looking between her and Fiddleford, pulling the menu up over his face.

More accustomed to Lazy Susan’s antics, Fiddleford laughs alongside her. “We’re busy as bees holed up out there, is all. But we’re tryin’ to put work out of our minds for once. We’ve had a long day, Stanford especially.” Beneath the table, he gives Ford a reassuring tap with his foot, and Ford taps back. “You mind if I give you our order right away?”

Lazy Susan waves her hand. “Oh, you cuties. Go ahead!” She readies her pen.

Chuckling at the compliment, Fiddleford straightens his posture as he dictates. “I’d like the fried chicken with a side o’ coleslaw. Stanford’ll have his large plate o’ fries an’ chocolate shake to match.” He holds up his finger for an addition. “Extra whipped cream on that shake, too. Somethin’ special for tonight.”

“For Disco Night!!” Susan shouts, raising her arms over her head in celebration before jotting down the order. “It’ll be out right away, you enjoy!” She tosses some napkins on the table before returning to the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, Ford lets out a long breath.

“What a nice lady!” Ford says, an even worse liar than usual. It wasn’t her fault, he was just... ill-experienced. Practice makes perfect?

Chuckling, Fiddleford reaches over to squeeze Ford’s shoulder. “She can be a handful on the best o’ days, but she means well, I promise. Th’ food’ll be worth it.” A change in song grabs his attention, and he kneads his palm into Ford as his eyes go wide with recognition. His knee starts bouncing, too, of course. “Fordsy, this was one o’ the songs they used durin’ orientation at Backupsmore! I thought it was catchy, but you couldn’t stand it—we argued the whole first night we lived together in the dorms.” His eyes dart from the ceiling back to Ford’s face, hoping the tune will jog his memory as well.

Ford holds his hand over Fiddleford’s as he looks up, trying to focus on the song. It’s a girl rock power ballad, and he doesn’t recognize it in the slightest—he’ll keep that to himself, of course. Though he once wasn’t a fan, he finds himself patting Fiddleford’s hand to the beat. “Why was I always such a stick in the mud? This is... well, it’s not good, but it’s fine.” He pauses, then smiles. “You seem like you’re still quite a fan.”

Turning away, but not so much that he’s forced to move his hand, Fiddleford stares down at his bouncing knee. “I can’t help it if it’s one o’ those super-singable melodies! Blame a childhood full o’ folk songs ’round the fireplace.” Taking Ford’s hand in his own, he brings them both down to the table, resting between their unused menus. “I’m glad you warmed up to it, though. Maybe I could finally get you to listen to some BABBA!”

Ford makes a face at the name alone, not recalling any music to dislike. “‘BABBA’ makes me think of... babies. I’ve never liked babies. I remember that.” He continues squeezing Fiddleford’s hands, going in and out of the rhythm of the song. He never claimed to be a musical genius, but he likes squeezing things. “A childhood full of folk songs sounds rather sweet. My childhood—” he cuts himself off with a blank expression. The traffic in his brain has come to a screeching halt. It’s difficult to speak. “Now... that is something... I cannot recall...”

The weak laugh he gets out of “never liked babies” vanishes as Ford drops off mid-sentence like he’s gone over a cliff. “Not a lick of it? Not a hair?” Regretting his gamble with Ford’s suit, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze off it. “There… there has to be somethin’. About your parents, your—your home, your brothers?”

Ford laughs and notices he’s getting light-headed. “I... have brothers? What are their, uh, names?” 

Gasping to keep himself from hyperventilating, Fiddleford tugs at his collar. “They’re, uh, Sherman, your older brother, Samuel, your younger brother, and, uh—” He has to close his eyes. “Stanley, your twin.”

Ford is staring open-mouthed when Lazy Susan saunters up with their food.

“We’ve got fried chicken and coleslaw for the blond bombshell.” She places the plate in front of Fiddleford. “And the fries ‘n’ shake for you, ya thick-jawed hunk!” She sets the plate and shake down, then gives Ford a “Boop!” on the nose before leaving.

There’s a long silence before, hands shaking, Ford picks up a steak fry and dips it in the chocolate shake. He raises his eyebrows upon eating it. “Not bad!” he says, still chewing. He chokes a little as he swallows—for once, his brain returns to the topic at hand after a distraction. “Fiddleford, you were saying—three brothers?” He holds up three fingers. “Two brothers, one  _ twin? _ I have a twin brother, and I, I—” He sinks back in his seat and bites into another fry, undipped. “I forgot about him?”

Fiddleford frowns, neglecting his steaming-hot meal as he twiddles his thumbs. “Well, you two weren’t… on the best o’ terms, when I met you, an’ that hasn’t changed as far as I can remember. A mishap back home left him on the streets an’ you at Backupsmore,” he explains, staring out the window. “I know he sends postcards sometimes, no two ever from the same place. Think there’s a drawer in your room somewhere that has ‘em.” His knee bounces again. The look on his face makes it clear these are bounces of grave apprehension.

Ford blinks, combing the recesses of his mind for any trace of this fabled Stanley—or Sherman, or Samuel. In place of childhood memories of bonding, he’s met with mounting static. Usually, that’s a bad sign, but he presses on until his head hurts, and even past that. He’s grimacing and rubbing his temples by the time he gives up. “You said there was… there was trouble at home?” Ford says, dipping and eating a few fries in quick succession. “That must be why I don’t remember. You see, the—” he leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper, “The monster fed on my worst memories. That’s why it was easy to remember you and college, the good memories. It thought that I wouldn’t notice those things I didn’t want were gone, and, and,” he stops himself. He sounds crazy. “I need to find those postcards,” he mutters, taking a scoop off the mountain of whipped cream with his finger.

_ HE FIGURED THAT OUT ON HIS OWN. I’M IMPRESSED! _

Fiddleford damn near rockets through the ceiling. “SASPARILLA!”

_ GESUNDHEIT! _

“I—”  _ I thought you were gonna leave me be! _

_ I WILL, BUT I THOUGHT YOU’D APPRECIATE CONFIRMATION OF HIS THEORY FROM THE HORSE’S MOUTH. BUSTING OUT THAT JUNK MAIL IS THE BEST IDEA OL’ HUMPTY-DUMPTY’S HAD SINCE HIS FALL! HERE, I’M EVEN FEELING CHARITABLE! THEY’RE HIDING BETWEEN HIS MATTRESS AND THE BEDFRAME. _ Alongside his words, Bill provides visuals of Ford tucking them away.  _ THAT’S AS MUCH AS I’LL TELL YA. TOODLES! _

Blinking back to reality, Fiddleford turns to Ford.

“...Well, I know where they are now.”

Ford knows he can’t stop the monster—the most he can do is comfort Fiddleford once he gets back. He traces shapes into his lover’s hand with his thumb: circle, square, triangle. He snaps to attention the moment Fiddleford speaks again. “You know where they are!?” he exclaims, leaning across the table, awestruck. “Then—the monster told you where they are? How did he know? Did I know? Did he—” Ford gasps. “Did he take the memory from me?” He begins rocking, pulling his hand away from Fiddleford so he can bite his thumbnail.

Still a bit groggy, Fiddleford shakes his head. “No, no, he can’t do that—I told you we made nice as best we’re able, right? He’s… he’s lendin’ a hand. Can’t exactly say he makes a habit of it, but in some strange way he wants to see you get well, too.” Rubbing against Ford’s leg beneath the table, he finally takes a bite of his fried chicken. Not only is it delicious, but feeding his tired brain seems to spark a brand new connection inside it. “Y’know, he didn’t believe I could help you, at first. He may be more scared to get his hopes up about all this than I am.” His overgrown heart feels another twinge of sympathy for the horrible little thing.

Ford doesn’t react well to Fiddleford—a rare occasion, as he trusts this man more than anything. He pulls his leg away and shakes his head with hurt and fear. “I know you ‘made nice as best you were able,’ but, helping you? How can you trust it? What if it’s leading you to some—some booby trap! Or one of its friends? We can’t know!” The fear gives way to more hurt as Ford eats a few fries. “And I hadn’t heard about anyone thinking I was… beyond saving.” Rarely does he mourn his former mind, but in the face of never getting better than  _ this? _ He feels his heart rate double, triple even.

Fiddleford’s compassion now feels like a moment of weakness more than anything else. His expression turns pleading. “And he was wrong, he even admitted that! Look at you, we couldn’ta done this a week ago!” Gesturing at their surroundings, his eyebrows knit together. “I shouldn’ta mentioned it, I don’t know why I did… Stanford, I trust that sunuvabitch as far as I can throw him. The fact o’ the matter is he can’t hurt us without hurtin’ himself. The only thing tetherin’ him to our reality is my grey matter. He’s got no dominion over our physical world, there’s nothin’ for him to do but talk my ear off. Seein’ as you’re the only soul he cares about, I’m lettin’ him make himself useful. But I swear I’ll never put you in harm’s way, alright?” His eyes water. “You know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

In some ways, Fiddleford’s comfort is cold. Yes, Ford’s improved, but being able to eat french fries at a restaurant shouldn’t be an achievement for a man his age. Yes, the monster lost, he’s trapped, there’s no way he can hurt us, but why does he still have to be here? Why do  _ you _ have to listen to  _ him? _ But Ford sees purple glistening in Fiddleford’s teary eyes, his food getting cold. He knows he has to pull his weight. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he says, voice soft and tender as he reaches across the table to cup Fiddleford’s cheek. “You love me, F. I love you too. We want the best for each other, and I... trust your judgment.” Reaching over with his other hand, he pokes Fiddleford in the cheek with a “French fry?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Fiddleford plucks the fry from Ford’s hand with an unsteady smile. “Thank you, dear,” he chokes out, tossing the fry in his mouth and barely chewing it before swallowing. “I know it’s not easy to trust me after what I did, an’ even harder when I share a body with… him. You deserve someone better watchin’ out for you, an’ I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.” Taking the hint that he should eat, Fiddleford glumly bites into his chicken again. It’s still somewhat warm, at least.

While Fiddleford focuses on his meal, Ford is staring at him with big, brokenhearted eyes. To hear him say something so self-deprecating! It was completely reproachable. “Fiddleford, you’re the one dealing with the  _ mental moron _ here, why are  _ you _ apologizing?” He says, unaware that he’s thinking aloud. “I can hardly remember ‘what you did,’ so it must not have been that bad, and I know you’re better than that demon, I know you spend every day fighting him... and taking care of me all the while... oh, God," he holds a hand to his chest and bites his lip, failing to hold back tears. “There’s no one I’d be better off with, Fiddleford, not on this Earth or any other!” He grabs a napkin and blows his nose, waving casually. “Please, keep eating.”

Fiddleford wants to explain why Ford can’t recall his betrayal, but that’s put to bed when he weeps mid-sentence. Fiddleford succumbs to sobs alongside him. “A-and yet here you are takin’ care o’ me. How ‘bout that?” Hoping it’ll ease Ford’s crying, he digs into his coleslaw before he goes on. “You say there’s no one you’d be better off with, but I don’t know where I’d find someone half as good to me as you. Heck, we only came out here at all ‘cause you insisted!” As he’s about to stuff his face with more ‘slaw (he forgot how much he’d missed it), he lowers the fork from his mouth. “An’ don’t call yourself a moron, darlin’. A moron wouldn’ta taken me on a date as nice as this.”

Ford blushes, sniffling several times before responding. “You think so?” he asks. “You think I’m... capable? Of taking you out, of caring for you, of, of, of being a good… b-boyfriend?”

Fiddleford wants to vault over the table to hold him. Instead, he nods so hard his glasses slide off his face. Grinning, he plants them back in their proper position. “You already have been, Fordsy! No one’s ever swept me off my feet like you did today. This’s been one o’ the most romantic nights o’ my life.” As if on cue, the lights dim. He’s worried the cause is environmental—Gravity Falls is prone to power outages. When the song that plays features a slow, soft electric piano, he catches on. “…And we jus’ got a chance to make it  _ the _ most romantic.”

Ford listens to the song, nodding along and tapping the table. He stands, crossing one arm behind his back and extending the other to Fiddleford. “May I have this dance, F?” He can hardly keep his feet still. There’s no way Fiddleford could refuse, even if he wanted to.

“Any time you like, you gentleman.” He grabs Ford’s hand, stringing him along to the makeshift dance floor like he’s a balloon. Once they reach the tiny taped-off square, he’s not surprised to find they have it all to themselves. He grabs Ford’s shoulder. “Got any muscle memory in there? If not, you can jus’ follow my footsteps. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ fancy.”

“Oh, oh my, oh this is, wow, I,” Ford stammers before clearing his throat and stating, coherent, “I’ll… follow you.”

By how much he’s tripping, Ford doesn’t think he’s any good. But he can’t help but notice how Fiddleford is smiling. The bags under his eyes don’t seem as dark. He’s standing up straight, and he’s so  _ alive.  _ Ford smiles back and continues attempting to dance.

Amnesia may have given Ford two left feet, but Fiddleford doesn’t mind—it’s not as if he’s much of a ballerina himself. Style and grace always come second to having a good time, in his book. “You’re doin’ fine, I’m proud of you,” he reassures, squeezing Ford. He keeps his footwork simple, oblivious to everything but the rhythm and the love of his life. Specks of light from a tiny mirror ball in the corner swarm around them like so many fireflies. He closes his eyes and somehow looks even more peaceful than if he were asleep.

In that most perfect second, Ford takes a deep breath and goes in for a kiss on the lips. He places his hand on the small of Fiddleford’s back, eyes closed, teeth sinking in.

White-hot lightning tears down Fiddleford’s spine, through his limbs, into his core. His lungs freeze mid-inhale, as does every other muscle in his body. The only exception is his eyelids, which flutter open briefly. When that breathless moment ends, he sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth wider as Ford deepens it. The hand on Ford’s shoulder moves to the back of his head, shaking like a leaf as he presses him in. He wants them to stay glued to each other forever.

Ford has never kissed like this before. It’s a kiss like the movies, like one he never thought he’d have. He can’t help but let out a small gasp as Fiddleford’s hands clutch his hair. His hands move as well, crawling their way up his back, between his shoulder blades. It’s when his free hand starts to grab his tie and pull that he notices Susan in his peripheral vision. “Oh my, I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away. He tucks Fiddleford’s tie back into his jacket and runs a hand through his hair.

Susan doesn’t even pause her mopping. “Oh, you’re two friends havin’ fun! Don’t let me get in the way.”

Ford blinks and nods, glancing around the diner, which is now empty barring the three of them. “Thank you, but I think we might be... heading home soon?” He reaches around Fiddleford’s shoulder and pulls him in for a side-hug.

A small “eep” escapes his lips as Ford draws him in. The gesture is intimate and possessive. Fiddleford is seeing stars, and last he checked, they were still indoors. Stanford’s plan seems mighty fine to him.

“Y-yes, yes, we—the bill, if you don’t mind…?” He starts to remove his wallet.

Susan thinks for a few seconds, then shrugs. “$25! Cash only!” She outstretches her hand.

Appreciating the bone thrown to him, Fiddleford counts out 3 $10’s and hands them over. “Th’ extra five’s your tip. Thank you for everythin’, as always.” Worming his fingers between Ford’s, he looks back up at him and nods to the door.

“Thanks for 20%, ya king among men!” She blows them a big kiss.

Ford laughs and waves—a level of politeness he wouldn’t have once afforded such a gesture. He squeezes Fiddleford’s hand and leads him out the door. Like a gentleman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> URPDQWLF EOLVV EHFRPHV URXWLQH  
> D ORYH ZLWK OHDYHV RI HYHUJUHHQ  
> BHW WKURXJK WKH ZRRGV DSSURDFKHV, VORZ,  
> D JLIW WKHB'OO QHHG PRUH WKDQ WKHB NQRZ

**Author's Note:**

> Like for part 2! <3 /s


End file.
